Monday, July 30, 2012

Jeff Turner joins us today to share a few tidbits about his upcoming self-published novel Notes to My Kids: Little Stories About Grown Up Kids, as well as share his experience in self-publishing. He has published two books of memoirs, the story of a marriage before divorce and another after divorce, Notes To Stephanie: Middle Aged Love Letters and Life Stories and Notes To Stephanie: Days Remembered.

Thanks for joining us today, Jeff.

What compelled you to write these
short stories about/to your children?

My first
two books are about me and my ex-wife Stephanie. These are non-fiction of course. After I finished the second book I decided to write more “Notes”
books using stories about my family.
Hence the third book is about my two children. A fourth will be about stories from my own life before my
kids were born.

Which of the stories is your favorite?

Oh boy
that is a hard one. There are
several possible candidates for sure.
One is “An Autographed Pizza Box” which is about my son having the owner
of a favorite pizza joint autograph one of his pizza boxes like the man was a
pro-athlete or celebrity – there is a mP3 file of this on my website. And one about my daughter at Christmas
time “One Xmas At Granbury” which describes her in a little girl wonderland of
sorts as we went through a giant indoor Christmas diorama/knickknack display at
a library. These stories are
special since they both describe an event that has stuck in my memory but also
shows a special side of their personality.

Which was the most challenging to write
and why?

Some of
the stories about the troubles my son had, born three months prematurely, were
the hardest since he very nearly died.
Writing about those times made many strong emotions well up inside of me
for obvious reasons. It was a
“yin-yang” sort of thing since he is now a 27-year-old grown man working in
telecom and you would never know what happened to him if you saw him. And some focused solely about my
daughter made the memories well up too – like the Note “Home With Baby Jane”
where I tell about how I once snapped at her, much to my regret, but it was
something that showed the loving sides of her personality and mine both. Finally, the Notes that talk about their
grandparents also show strong feelings. In short, being a loving dad made many things came
back into focus as I recalled the times when they were little and the places we
had been together. Thus a sense of
home and family comes out in many of the Notes. Here is one example from “The New Park”:

“The New Park
will remain with me always. A
place filled with many cherished recollections of your young and little years -
memories of many good, fun, and exciting times spent together under its shady
trees. It is a place that is
pleasant, comforting, and filled only with good. All of the parks in our lives should forever be that way
unlike the trying playgrounds we see so often in our lives”.

How did you decide to Self-Publish?

I looked
into getting in print the old fashioned way and weighed the amount of time and
effort that might take against the type of work I do which is consulting which
sometimes requires long and weird hours plus travel and decided this would be
easier time-wise. Plus I would
retain control of the process – being a project manager this fits my
personality to be able to manage things.
So I read some books on it – you can see such works on Amazon – and the
rest is history, to use the cliché.

What are the upsides to Self-Publishing,
in your experience?The downsides?

I alluded
to the upsides above as you can see: you retain control over the effort. The downside is that you have to do all
of the work yourself, which implies a learning curve. One of the biggest hurdles is marketing one’s works to get
sales. That is the biggest thing I
am still trying to learn how to do.

What would you advise to authors
considering self-publishing?

You
should do your homework in detail – read the several good books on the subject
to see how it works and what the options are, make sure your personality fits
the model you choose, and be willing to do the work that is required to produce
and market your product. Speaking
of marketing I have done some book signings, and have sent out review copies of
the book among other things. You should
be willing to try new things and experiment to find what works best for you –
again I’m still working on that part!

What’s next for you?

When I
get the book about my kids done I will move on to the book about my own growing
up years. I have a chapter outline
already done. After that the
actual writing will ensue. Plus I
have some rough ideas for a fifth “Notes” book, which will be a collection of
things I have written here and there on a variety of things. Some of these appear on my own blog and
I want to say some are here as well.

If you could have coffee/tea/martinis
with any person (living or dead), who would it be with and why?Being a
history buff I could name several people but since there is only one choice I
would choose General George S. Patton. I’ve read books about him, including two
volumes of letters he wrote, and of course enjoyed the two movies about him
from Hollywood: Patton and the Last Days Of Patton. I would like to see firsthand what he was
like and not just through the lens of books or films.

Come back on Friday for an excerpt of Notes to My Kids: Little Stories About Grown Up Kids, including a chance to win a free set of his memoirs to one lucky commentator.Contact Jeff at the following sites.

Friday, July 27, 2012

Thanks for joining us today for a special excerpt from Bev Irwin's women's suspense novel, MISSING CLAYTON.

Backcover Blurb:

Where is Clayton? The sandbox is empty, the backyard is empty, the gate is open, where is Jenny's six-year-old son? Will she be able to find him in time?

KUDOS
for Missing Clayton

Irwin
does a brilliant job of portraying her villain. I once heard a psychologist say
that no one thinks of themselves as evil. No matter how evil they are, they
always justify their deeds to themselves. Well, that is certainly true in the
case of the villain in Missing Clayton. Irwin has done an excellent job of
making the villain seem real. In fact, all of her characters are completely
three dimensional and believable. The plot twists and turns kept me reading to
the very last page. I gave up emails, dinner, and television to finish the
book. – Taylor,Reviewer

CHAPTER 1

I don’t like it here. It’s dark. It’s cold. Why doesn’t Mommy come and get me? She knows I don’t like the dark.

“Your mommy has to
find you,” the man had said.

Where is she?

“It’s a game,” he said.

He grabbed my arm. It hurt. It’s not a good game. He’s not nice.

I called her, but he put his smelly hand
over my mouth. I wanted to bite it.
Mommy doesn’t like biting. But he’s mean. I don’t like this place. Will
she find me here? She will. She’s good at hide-and-seek. I hope she finds me soon.

The boy sat cross-legged in the
cave-like space, a mat of blue tweed his only protection from the damp dirt
floor. Putting his head in his hands, he felt the mud coating his hair. He’d
screamed when the man rubbed it on his head.

“My mommy doesn’t like my hair dirty.
She’ll be mad at you.”

The man laughed. Not a nice
laugh, either. He sounded like the Joker in Batman. The laugh reminded him of
his father when he got angry.

He had to be good. There was no
closet to hide in here.

Thick mud covered his blond
hair. Clawing at his head, he broke off bits of clay. He remembered that
morning and his mother brushing his hair. She said it shone like the sun.

They were going to his new
school and she wanted him to look nice for his teacher. If Mommy didn’t find
him in time, would he have to stay in kindergarten? He scrubbed at his head
until his hands hurt, yet the dirt remained. He didn’t want to cry, but tears
slid down his face and merged with the dirt. They ran into his mouth, the
mixture stung his tongue, and he spat it out. More tears ran down his face. His
mother didn’t like spitting.

He clenched his fists and
pounded at the rug beneath him. It wasn’t long before his hands throbbed. He
stopped pounding and began tearing at the ragged fringes along one end of the
rug. When his fingers slipped beyond the rug, he touched earth—cold and hard
and damp. He shivered.

After what seemed like forever,
curiosity overcame his fear and he began to investigate. His eyes, adjusted to
the dimness, saw a few feet beyond the rug. A dirt wall, like the one behind
him, ended the open space in front. He stretched out his right arm and his
fingers felt the dampness of another wall of dirt. To his left, the area
stretched into a black space.

He peered into the darkness.
Several wooden crates—each containing differently shaped objects too blurry to
make out—filled the space. Above him, he saw the wooden door he’d been shoved
through. He counted four wooden rungs leading up from the crawl space. The trap
door allowed only a sliver of light to enter the space.

I don’t like the dark.

Mingling scents of mold,
dampness, dried animal droppings, closed in on him. It made his throat tight
and he coughed.

He stretched a hand above his
head. Sticky strands closed around his fingers. He jerked his hand back,
scrubbed the spider webs onto the rug, and retreated to the safety of the woven
mat. Maybe it was better not to explore. Sitting Indian-style, he cradled his
arms around his chest and rocked back and forth. Beyond where he sat, the cave
was jet-black. He tried to hold back his tears. Soft scuffling sounds came from
the corners of the dugout. He knew they weren’t human. The rhythm of his
rocking increased.

When is Mommy coming? I’m going to
curl up here and sleep until she finds me. There’s just enough room. If
I close my eyes, I won’t see how dark it is. It will be as dark inside my head as it is on the outside.

He curled into a fetal position.
Somewhere close he heard the scurrying of tiny feet. Stuffing his fingers in
his ears, he made himself think about playing in the safety of his backyard.
Anything to drown out the wild pictures crowding his head.

He remembered building the
castle in his sandbox. He was scooping out the moat when someone called his
name. The man came into the backyard.

“I have a surprise for you.”

The chocolate was soft and
gooey. “More in the truck,” the man said. But he didn’t have any more. He lied.

He remembered the smelly rag
being pressed into his mouth. He remembered the bandana tied over his eyes. He
remembered the man grabbing him, running with him. He remembered being shoved
in the back of a truck.

“We’re playing hide and seek,”
the man said. “Your mommy has to find you.”

The smell of gas and oil stung
his nostrils as a blue tarp landed on top of him. It shut out the sun. He heard
a door slam, an engine start, wheels squealing, and the truck sped away.

How is Mommy going to find me? Maybe he lied
about that,too.

Earlier That Day

“Clay, lunch is ready.”

Jenny Kingsley took a loaf of
bread from the breadbox. Sunlight streamed through the open kitchen window
catching the embossed pattern of fuchsia and sapphire roses on the box’s lid.
Her gaze drifted to the matching canister set and she traced the edges of the
delicate flowers. She’d spied the set at Stockley’s Variety Store last week and
had to have it. It matched perfectly with the wallpaper she’d recently hung.
Jenny couldn’t resist splurging on it. She couldn’t remember ever having a
matched set of anything.

Buttering the bread, she
plastered peanut butter on top. A quick lunch, but they had things to do. They
had to be at Manor Park School in forty-five minutes to register Clayton. Jenny
couldn’t believe how quickly time passed, couldn’t believe her baby was old
enough to be going into the first grade.

As she glanced around the newly
decorated kitchen, she smiled. The old wallpaper with its faded olive vines and
tarnished brass teapots had been replaced. The chipped and stained cupboards,
painted a dull mustard when she moved in, now had a fresh coat of white paint.

Anything was better than yellow.
She detested that color—too many reminders of her mother’s kitchen, perpetually
painted some ugly shade of yellow or beige. Jenny shuddered. How many times had
she entered that kitchen, her mother’s domain, quivering in fear, never knowing
what mood she’d be in?

Jenny thought she’d left that
behind when she married Ray. But she’d only moved from one black hole to
another, even to the apartments they rented—neutral colors she couldn’t change.
But no more. No more yellow, and no more living under a veil of fear.

Everything in this house looked
bright and cheerful. Just like her life.

She’d made the right decision.
Now, she and Clayton had a place of their own, a safe place—a place free of Ray’s
fits of anger, his drinking, his abuse. A place where she didn’t have to listen
to her mother’s suggestions on how to
live her life.

With a population of under
thirty thousand, Scottsville was a good choice. It had enough business to
provide the inhabitants with work, yet was close enough to Columbus if people
wanted more. And at a fifty-minute drive from Dresden, it afforded Jenny a
comfortable distance from both Ray and her mother. Not much chance of them
popping in to remind her she’d made a big mistake leaving Ray and moving away.

Jenny forced the nagging voice
of uncertainty into submission. It had taken months of weighing the
consequences to formulate a plan, but it was worth it. Finished with people
pushing her around, she could make her own decisions, make her own mistakes.
Her fingers caressed the black-and-white photos posted on the fridge. Last
week, at the movies, Clay had seen the photo kiosk and begged to have their
picture taken. She traced the line of his toothless grin.

Jenny executed a pirouette in
the center of the room then laughed at her foolish antics. Picking up the
knife, she layered strawberry jam on top of the peanut butter. Yes, it had been
the right decision. They were both happy, and out of harm’s way.

After moving into the house
three months ago, she’d tackled the kitchen first. Having never painted or
wallpapered, it took her countless hours to strip the layers of old wallpaper,
and many more to refinish the woodwork. She glanced at her nails. They were
still chipped and broken. But it was worth it. She loved it—the Wedgwood walls,
the ceiling border of fuchsia and blue flowers, and the white paint on the
cabinets. Even the kitchen table gleamed with a new coat of white enamel. Fresh
paint, fresh colors, fresh kitchenware—a good first step toward building a
brand new life.

Jenny leaned toward the window. “Clay,
get in here.”

Crossing the room, she placed
the peanut butter and jam sandwiches on the table. While she waited for Clay to
run in, she stroked the delicate new tea set. It must be a sign her life was
finally changing, finally getting on a positive track.

Everything was falling into
place. She’d found this house at an affordable price, and had landed a great
job. So what if her accounting teacher had pulled a few strings. Doing the
books for Lawson Manufacturing at home meant she didn’t need a babysitter for
Clayton. She glanced at the pile of papers she’d been working on earlier. When
they got back from the school, she’d finish tallying the accounts for this
month’s sales. Maybe Mr. Lawson would recommend her to some of his associates.
With Clay in school fulltime, she could take on more clients.

Ray had forbidden her to take
the accounting course but, thank God, she’d stood her ground. She’d worked hard
and graduated with honors. Once Clay started school, she’d enroll in an
advanced accounting course.

Jenny picked up a towel and
wiped off the teapot before placing it on the table. She glanced at the clock.
Eleven-forty-five. Where is he?

“Clay, we have to eat. We need
to go to your new school.” She’d give him one minute to get inside.

Standing on tiptoes, Jenny
leaned against the counter and peered through the window. It afforded a partial
view of the fenced-in yard. She scanned the lawn. At the back of the property,
overgrown shrubs lined the chain-link fence. She saw the swing set beside the
fence and part of the red plastic slide. She saw the sandbox where Clayton was
building a castle.

It was empty.

Throwing the tea towel over her
shoulder, Jenny walked to the back door. She looked through the screen toward
the sandbox—the castle abandoned, his red shovel cast off in the shimmering
platinum sand. Rusty hinges creaked when she shoved the screen door open.

Jenny swatted at a mosquito
attacking her calf. With the July heat, the insects were out in droves.
Movement caught her eye. She glanced at the swing. Empty, it swung in the
breeze as if recently occupied. Her gaze paused briefly before continuing over
the expanse of lawn.

She expected Clay to run in and
demand his lunch, demand they go now to his new school. Jenny called again. The
yard was silent. There was no demanding child. Her voice mushroomed several
octaves. “Clay, where are you?”

Stepping onto the porch, Jenny
letthe wooden screen door slam
behind her. She used the tea towel to swat at the onslaught of mosquitoes
taking advantage of the open door. She hurried down the three worn plank risers
to the grass. Was he hiding at the side of the house? The tea towel swung on
her shoulder as she skirted the vinyl-sided building. Her voice rose, partly in
annoyance, partly in concern. “Clayton, come here now!”

I hate playing hide and seek.

She thought of how Clayton would
hide behind some bush or piece of furniture then jump out to scare her. She’d
scold him. “It frightens me when I can’t find you.” He’d giggle at her panic.
With pouting lips and downcast head, his mischievous blue eyes would peek out
of his angelic face. He’d promise never to do it again—until the next time.

The side of the house was empty.
She looked behind and inside the shed. A wheelbarrow stood in the middle of the
lawn where Weigelia bushes awaited planting. Maybe he was hiding behind it.
Jenny circled the wheelbarrow, but he wasn’t there. Could he fit under it? He
wasn’t very big. She moved one of the bush-filled buckets and looked
underneath. Nothing.

“Darn it, Clayton, where are
you? This isn’t funny.”

Jenny hurried to the back fence,
her heart beating faster with each step. Branches scratched her forearms. She
thrust them out of the way. He wasn’t hiding there. A lump clogged her throat.
She gasped for air. It hurt to breathe. She scrutinized the fence skirting the
perimeter for holes Clayton might have slipped through. There weren’t any.

She turned and inspected every
inch of the yard. It was as vacant and desolate as an uninhabited planet. Hot
air escaped her lungs, the lump in her throat shifted, going deeper into her
chest. Jenny rushed to the porch.

He’s here. He’s just hiding,
playing one of his tricks on me. “Clayton, come out, right now!”

She was screaming, but she didn’t
care. Nothing mattered as long as Clayton heard her and came running. She just
wanted to see his towhead popping out from under a bush, or from behind a tree.
But she’d already checked every bush, every tree, every possible hiding spot.

Do it again, whatever you need to do.
You have to find him. Under the porch. You haven’t checked there yet. He
wouldn’t be there, he’s afraid of the
dark. Check it anyway.

Racing to the wooden porch, she
scrambled to her knees and peered into the darkness. Nothing. No small shape,
no hiding child. Only darkness. The tea towel fell from her shoulder.
Involuntarily, she picked it up and wrung the linen between her sweat soaked
palms.

Check the front yard. He’s not allowed
to play there. Check it anyway.

She darted toward the front of
the house. Dirt and grass clung to the bottom of her floral sundress. The front
yard lay before her, manicured, peaceful, deserted. Tears trickled from the
corners of her eyes.

A freshly painted, white picket
fence enclosed the small, neatly mown lawn. But the yard held no bucket, no
shovel, no play cars, no tricycle, and no blond-haired little boy. Something
caught Jenny’s attention. A movement. A sound. She turned.

The white gate, the gate that
kept the world at bay, was open—a gaping hole to another sphere. She watched in
horror as the gate swung gently back and forth, back and forth. It screeched on
rusted hinges, trying to latch with each sweep.

She felt as if she’d fallen into
a bottomless abyss—twirling out of control, spinning in a place where light no
longer existed. Her breath wedged in her throat, like a swollen seed,
engorging, distending, obstructing her wind-pipe. She felt as if she might
never take another breath. It seemed a lifetime before a strangled cry edged
its way out of her constricted throat.

“Clayton.”

Her gazed darted up, then down
the street. No Clayton. She raced to the corner and checked both directions on
Willow Street, then ran back down Elm, peering into every backyard as she made
her way to the next block.

All along Chestnut Street she
saw pristinely painted houses with manicured lawns—a perfect, safe
neighbor-hood—not one where a child would go missing out of his own backyard.
Jenny searched the rows of sedate houses. The streets were empty except for
three boys doing wheelies in the middle of the road.

“Have you seen a small boy go by
here in the last few minutes?”

One of them spun his bike close
to the curb. “Nope.”

“He’s about this high.” Jenny
held her hand a few inches above her waist. “He’s blonde.”

As if picking up on her hysteria,
they skidded to a stop and leaned tanned arms on their handlebars. After
darting glances between them, they shrugged. “No, ma’am. We haven’t seen him.”

Her knees wobbled like Jell-O,
but she forced them to keep moving. Maybe he’s still in the backyard. Maybe he’s
playing hide and seek. Jenny rushed back through the open gate, screaming his
name. Again she checked behind every bush, every tree. Her mind tormented with
inconceivable possibilities, she raced to the front of the house. She looked up
and down the street, screaming her son’s name.

Silence the only response.

Jenny sagged against the fence—the
barricade to their safe haven. Her body went as limp as the damp dishtowel she
clutched in her fingers. Shattered words slid over her parched lips.

“Clay...Clay...where are you?”

Thanks so much for sharing your first chapter, Bev! A mother's worst nightmare. We wish you the best in your upcoming novel, WITHOUT CONSENT!

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

This is the fourth in
the 12-part series Wrongs To Write:
Defying Fiction Conviction, by Fort Worth based fiction novelist Jeff Bacot
on challenging conventional literary rules in fiction writing. Jeff Bacot is a
freelance writer of fiction and blogger of unconventional thought. His novel ON THE HOLE was recently published and
released and is available on Amazon.com or Barnes and Nonles.com. He is an
active member of The Greater Fort Worth Writers group. He is a graduate of
Southern Methodist University.

WRITING WHAT YOU DON’T
KNOW: RACE WRITING RIOTING

“Always write what you know.” These words ring in my ears
every single day when I sit down in front of my laptop and attempt to create
something. It’s an instruction that is hard wired into my left brain and bolted
tightly into my right brain (as it is with every writer). I try. I do, but fail
miserably sometimes. There are
obviously limitations to writing what you know, all the time. Sometimes you
just have “make stuff up” as you go. So, my next question: “What do I know?
What exactly do I really know? What the hell do you know well enough to write
about Jeff?” It’s a maddening question. Well, I like to THINK I know a lot…but sometimes
I know nothing, but write anyway.

“You write white,” a woman in my creative writing group said
to me recently. It got my puzzled attention immediately; because this woman is white.
“What do you mean?” I asked, not knowing how to respond to the observation.
“All of the characters in your stories are white.” I thought about it for a
minute and realized she was almost correct. Most of my characters are actually
not just white, but male, with money. After thinking about this for a few days,
I asked myself some hard questions about characters I choose for my stories.
“Why DO I do this?” I could not answer.

The counterargument that I want to toss aside is the one
that “writing what you know” invokes realism. “Write only what you know,” as a
defense and argument against “noodling and rambling” with words. I always
thought “write what you know” was a pathetic cliché; an apologetic bromide.
Like something the high school creative writing teacher says to the talented
student in a Hallmark movie. That’s not to say that “write what you know” is
necessarily bad advice. Clearly, a writer will want to draw from their
surroundings, and from people they know when constructing a story.

Makes perfect sense I guess, right? Wrong. To write only
what you know is anemic advice. It’s particularly awful advice when all of the
people who have the opportunity to write are often white, often rich, and often
men. Do we really want stories that are only populated with these people? No,
it would get old and boring. This status quo severely limits the experiences
that get written and deemed worthy to produce and publish. Writers should write
what they know while being creative, thoughtful, empathetic and courageous
enough (and, let’s be frank: talented enough) to venture outside those
boundaries. Writing outside of what you know, when based on people we know.
Individuals.

I thought about this quandary as I pondered all the people
in my life that I know well. My best friend growing up was Hispanic. My former
wife was Swedish. One of my closest college friends is African American. My
best client when I was in the banking profession was Asian. One of my closest
friends and writing editor is British, and a woman. And, upon a careful
examination of the assortment of friends on my Facebook pages, roughly 50% of
my friends are from a different country, or are a different ethnicity, race or
culture altogether, than I. (It is also about 52% male and 48% female). It turns out I know a lot of different
individuals, but tend to write only based on the same ones.

I have a
variety of people that I choose to associate with, dine with, socialize with
and work with. Most of these people I know well. I may not know everything there is to know about the
culture, religions, backgrounds, heritages, countries, values and social
conditions, but I know these people. I know this person, previously and now. So, why is it that I rarely write
characters that differ from my race, religious preference, sexual preference
and gender? It is completely in
keeping and authentic to “what I know” to write about people in my life,
because I take great inspiration from them in characterizations in my stories.
But, I take inspiration from them individually and not the collective group
from and to which they belong. But I think all writers chicken out when the
desire to include a character whose race we might not understand, in the name
of being……

PC! Yes, politically correct. I said it, and then coughed,
because I am not. Anyone who knows me, knows I often say and write things that
are offensive. Indeed, this whole 12-part blog series I am writing is titled
“Writing The Wrong: Defying Fiction Conviction.” It stands at the altar of “going against the grain.” My last
blog piece, “The Profound In The Profane” advocated the use of more swear words
in literature, for crying out loud. I don’t mean to be offensive, but I can be.
In attempting to communicate that which is true, that which is real, that which
connects, and that which is authentic, it is necessary for me to offend
sensibilities sometimes. Yes, I said “necessary”.

In my recent novel publication On The Hole, I wrote a scene
where two guys were making jokes about each other’s bad golf shots, by
personifying the shot with a famous person’s name. One of the characters (and I
stress CHARACTER, because he is bigger than life, with the nickname “Skew”.) Skew refers to his budddy Nick’s golf shot
that was “straight at first, but then took a turn,” as a ‘Rock Hudson’. Hitting
a ball with a club size too large he calls a ‘Rodney King’ (“over clubbed it.”)
Then he refers to hitting a ball in a sand trap twice before you get out as an ‘Adolf
Hitler’ (“two shots in the bunker.”) Get it?

Is Skew politically incorrect? Sure he is, very. I suspect
there are quite a few gay people, African Americans, and maybe even some Germans,
who would find this guy offensive. Maybe even a thug. He is. But the character is unique and very far
from “PC”. He is not racist, just really, really, really inappropriate. It is
authentic, slightly funny, but realistic to who this guy is, and what is typical
for his behavior. He is vital to the story though. (Some people really like the
guy, some hate him. But all agree he is similar to someone they know. That was
the goal when I created him.) But I decided in writing On The Hole, that I
would just be authentic, create believable people, and let readers judge for themselves
the veracity of my characters.

Lesley Arfin, a writer for HBO's controversial series ‘Girls’,
responded recently to criticism that the show doesn't have any non-white
characters, "What really bothered me most about criticisms was that this
was a representation of ME. That I had a reason." That is what Arfin “knew” and so that is what she wrote. She
apologized later -- "Without thinking, I put gender politics above race
and class. That was careless. The last thing I want is girls versus girls." Her apology rang hollow, but it was an apology nonetheless. Did she need to
apologize though? Well, I’ll let you be the judge. I have my own opinion. But,
that was the goal and what the writers knew and chose to tell: a fair argument
against too much “PC”, pandering to popular sentiment and frankly, censorship.
These three villains to fiction beget flat, limp, and boring characters….and
crappy stories.

So, I have to
be careful with this subject, but I intend to incorporate many different
characters into my stories, that will be based on the people I know, regardless
of their heritage. I will not pander to the umbrella of a characters’ class,
race, gender, religion or sexual preference. Just the individual and what I
know of him/her, and a little that I choose to “make up” in my imagination. SO,
feel free to write into your stories a variety of races, religions, cultures,
but it is paramount to make it based on the content and character of the
individuals you know, not a PC fill-in. It will enrich your story and make it
accurate to modern reality. Write what you know, and bravely write what you
don’t know without fear. But make sure it is based on the person, their unique
personality and glowing authenticity, not politically correct pandering.

Monday, July 23, 2012

Please welcome Bev Irwin, award-winning author of MISSING CLAYTON, a women's suspense novel, and three other stories. She lives in Ontario, Canada and her debut novel, WHEN HEARTS COLLIDE came out Dec 2011 (contemporary romance) with Soul Mate Publishing under pen name Kendra James. She writes YA, children's and poetry, and prefers spending time in her garden, reading, and writing to being in the kitchen. Her YA Paranormal, GHOSTLY JUSTICE, was released by Black Opal Books in April 2012 in both print and ebook. As a registered nurse, she liked to add a touch of medical to her romance and mystery novels.

Where did you get your inspiration for MISSING CLAYTON?

I think any mother’s worst fear is losing their child.
If lost, hopefully they return or someone finds them and brings them home. But
when your child is missing even for a moment, the worst thoughts go through
your head. The more time that passes, more and darker scenarios present
themselves.

The premise came to me when a co-worker’s husband kept
her kids longer than their agreement allowed. My mind went wandering and a seed
began to germinate for Missing Clayton.

What scene in the book is your favorite?

I think the first scene where my child has been taken
and put in a cave-like space. We hear his thoughts and feel his fear. When a
child is lost, it is not only the mother who is traumatized but also the child
who trusts his mother to always be there for him.

Which character was the most challenging to write and why?

I think Tyrell. I had to make him the villain but I
wanted to show his human side and what had driven him to take the child. I also
wanted to show the deterioration of his mental status, which puts the child in
more jeopardy.

What is your writing story? How did you get started in the business?

I wrote poetry as a child getting a poem published when
I was in grade three. I continued writing poetry for years never showing it to
anyone until I was in my thirties. At that time, I started entering them in
some contests. I am in a few anthologies for my poetry.

Then in the mid 90’s I broke my hand getting a horse on
a trailer. It was like God said, “Okay, you have been wanting to write, here is
some time.”

So for the first time since I was fourteen and started
working while I went to school then became a registered nurse, I had some time
to myself. I had had maternity leaves, three of them, but then only had like
six to fifteen weeks off with a new baby that didn’t count for time to play
with my dream. But with a broken hand that ended up not being set properly and
having to have it broken again and then surgery to fix it properly, I had
several months off my nursing job.

I started my first romance, which still might get
published. But children’s stories started coming to me in the middle of writing
the romance. None of them are published yet but someday they may be. I also
started writing other stories that became my passion, mysteries. And this is
where I find the most fun. I like to start with a what-if and see where it
takes me.

I belong to Savvy Authors, a great site for writers. In
the summer of 2011, I pitch to Debby Gilbert of Soul Mate Publishing and she
contracted me for my first book, WHEN HEARTS COLLIDE which came out as an ebook
in December and will be out in print later this year. I also pitched two novels
to Lauri Bausch of Black Opal Books. She took GHOSTLY JUSTICE, my YA paranormal
out in print and ebook in April, and MISSING CLAYTON, a women’s suspense, will
be released July 28th. I have been contracted fortwo more books with Lauri.

Are you a plotter or a ‘pantser’?

Oh, definetly a ‘panster’ but I am trying so hard to be
a ‘plotter’. It would be so much easier to have a map of where I am going in my
stories. I do try, I really do and I am getting better at it. I use Scrivener
for a writing program and can put all my scenes there and write on each scene
as the muse hits me. I have never written a book from the beginning to the end
and I doubt I ever will. My muse likes to keep me moving from one thing to
another. I may have five projects on the go and write a bit here and then go
work on another project. Some may say I am AHDD but I end up with several
projects. And that worked very well when I found an editor that likes my work.
She has contracted me for four books this year and I have more projects I want
to finish and pitch to her.

What is the oddest/craziest piece of advice you’ve heard from an
editor/agent/or author?

I’ve had an author tell me to just work on one thing.
What would have happened if I listened to that advice. I would still be
re-editing and re-editing. No book is perfect and we will always find things we
want to change every time we read it. We have to do the best we can, then send
it out into the big bad world, accept our rejections. Hopefully we get some
constructive criticism and can improve the book, and do what, of course, send
it out there again.

What advice would you offer to new writers trying to break into
publishing?

Take wring courses, join writing groups, allow yourself
to be critiqued. Get your book finished. It’s hard but if you never finish it,
you have nothing to send out there. Start with smaller publishing houses and
newer agents. It would be like winning the lottery to have a big agent take on
your first book. But do so if you want, people do win the lottery. Join a group
like Savvy Authors. They have great, inexpensive writing courses, critique
possibilities and also pitch sessions.

As you can see I write in several genres and enjoy them all. Don’t
limit your writing. Experiment. See where your imagination takes you, but most
of all keep that pen moving and the pages turning.

What’s next for you?

MISSING CLAYTON, a women’s
suspense, is coming out July 28th with Black Opal Books.

IN HIS FATHER’S FOOTSTEPS,
coming out Oct 27th is similar to Gary Paulsen’s Brian series.

WITHOUT CONSENT, a medical /
police thriller will be coming out at the end of this year or the beginning of
next year.

GHOSTLY JUSTICE, a YA
paranormal was released April 14th.

Fifteen-year-old
Daria Brennan doesn’t want to hear people’s thoughts. She doesn’t want to see
ghosts or talk to dead people. And she definitely doesn’t want to help Amanda
solve her forty-year old murder. But Amanda wants revenge, and Daria is the
first human contact she’s had since the day she died. Now the killer is after
Daria and her friends. Can they solve this Amanda’s murder in time, or will
they become the next victims?

I also have
several other works in progress. It’s so much fun to start something new!

If you could have coffee/tea/martinis with any person (living or
dead), who would it be with and why?

Taylor Caldwell. I loved her writing. She has a great
body of work and she worked philosophical themes into her stories.

Another writing
mentor would be Mary Higgins Clark. I love her writing and her plots. I think
that is where my love of mystery started. And hopefully I will get to meet her
when I go to Bouchercon this fall as she will be there to receive ‘The Lifetime
Achievement Award.'

Thanks so much for sharing your story, Bev! Readers- please post comments and questions for Bev Irwin and she'll come by and answer when she can.Bev can be found online at www.bevirwin.com and www.blackopalbooks.comThanks for joining us today! Please come back on Friday for an excerpt of MISSING CLAYTON.

Friday, July 20, 2012

The Kissing List, by Stephanie Reents is a collection of interlocking short stories of women who bravely defy expectations and take outrageous chances in the face of a life that might turn out to be anything less than extraordinary. Below is an excerpt of the short story, Games:*Adult Content Below*

My plan is simple: kiss Peter’s ball as a means of bonking Hayley. After you kiss in croquet, you may whack the other player or take an extra stroke. I want to hit Hayley deep into the heart of the blueberry bushes so that her mallet turns blue from chipping at her ball among the ripe berries. “Bamarama,” I say, rattling the ice in my mint julep. “Take that, you playboy.” “Shit,” Peter says, stretching out the word like a piece of saltwater taffy. “I guess I’m a goner.”I move my ball a mallet’s length from his. “What?” Peter says. “I’m off the hook, Sylvie?” I aim for Hayley, and my ball smacks hers. “You brute,” she says as her ball goes spinning into the bushes. I know it’s cruel to go after Hayley, but I’ve been annoyed with her since the drive up from New York to Alex’s parents’ summer house in Maine. “I have to pee, I have to pee, I have to pee,” she chanted at regular intervals, and Alex dutifully pulled over, which makes sense, I suppose, since he has the hots for her, even though she has a boyfriend named geoff, a reclusive sculptor who’s also a weekend race car driver. Alex is Peter’s best friend, and Peter is my boyfriend. Hayley, as the y in her name suggests, is the kind of woman who always has to be the center of attention. I have this theory that the Western world is populated by two kinds of women: small women with big hair, and average to big women with all kinds of hair. Small women with big hair aren’t necessarily small, but they have some quality that makes them childlike, like little-girl women. Women like this exist in a state of grace; the world still extends to them, everything for their pleasure. Even though hayley has closely cropped blonde hair, she’s clearly one of them. “Don’t be a sourpussy,” Alex says before he takes his turn. “It’s all fun and games until someone’s whites get dirty.” “I give up,” Hayley says. “Don’t,” Alex says. “Just move your ball to the edge of the bushes.” “Yeah,” Peter chimes in. I look at Peter but fail to establish eye contact with him through the mosquito netting that’s wrapped around the baseball cap he’s wearing. We’ve all donned these contraptions to keep away the bugs. All Peter told me about Hayley before the trip was that she was supersmart, even though she didn’t go to college. This is code for cool in the language spoken by Peter and Alex, who get turned on by women who read hegel, not as well as they do, but well enough. “Those aren’t the rules.” My voice sounds shrill. “You have to hit from wherever you find yourself.” “Fine,” Hayley says, suddenly turning away from us and walking toward the bushes. “I can play by whatever rules.” “It’s just a fucking game, Sylvie,” Peter says. “We’re not setting organizational policy. We’re on vacation.” In the shadows of the blueberry bushes, Hayley misangles her mallet, and her ball barely moves. “Can I just quit?” Hayley whines, but Alex is by her side, telling her she can take a do-over: “Croquet rule #256 states that ball must progress or regress by at least six inches, and if, whereby it fails, the stymied gent or lady must shoot again.” He looks at me. “Agreed, Sylvie?” “Of course.” I feel myself soften a little toward Harley. “Have you some advice?” Alex asks Peter. “Do you mind if I show you how?” Peter asks Hayley. “I need all the help I can get,” she says. Peter is a master of croquet, not because he plays much, but because he is a ruthless competitor in all sports that involve using an intermediary device to hit balls. His specialty is tennis, but he can also hold his own in badminton and pool. If there were an olympics of social games, including bridge and hearts and perhaps backgammon and debate, Peter would clean up. He hates to lose. When I once reminded him that social means sociable, he growled, “What’s the point?” Then he hitched his fingers through my belt loops and yanked me toward him. “I eventually won you, didn’t I?” this is true, though it didn’t take much. I was pretty lost in something I still can’t quite explain when Peter persuaded me to go out on a real date with him. “Since kissing doesn’t seem to count as intent to get serious in your book,” he said, “You’ve forced me to go old school: dinner and a movie?” Now, I watch as Peter stands behind Hayley and wraps his arms around her so that they’re standing parallel, aiming toward the ocean and the second wicket. Peter shuffles in his flipflops, moving into position, and Hayley’s clogs answer. Then he pulls back her arms, like he’s setting the pendulum of a grandfather clock into motion, and the heavy ball darts through the kelly green grass like a small, furtive animal running for cover and rolls right on-target toward the wicket. A nickel-size dimple appears in hayley’s cheek. And Peter’s face is stamped with a clown’s grin so silly I can feel his jaw ache.The cottage has five bedrooms, and Peter and I retreat into one at the far end of the second floor. There are mouse droppings in the box of Kleenex next to the bed. Naked under the cumulus cloud of goose down, we begin to fight. “So,” I say.“So?” “What was that all about?” “What?” Peter answers. “You know. During croquet.” “I was helping her,” he says. “Why are you like this, Sylvie?” Peter opens a book the size of a cinder block on the history of New York. “I can’t believe you like people like her.” “Why?” “Her whole Marxist critique of higher education? Her family’s hardly the proletariat. How do you think she can afford to work for a photographer?” “So?” “She didn’t go to college because she hated school.” “She’s interesting.” “Give me a break. She’s insipid. Were you listening to the conversation on the way up?” I slump against my pillow. “Which one?” “Where she said she hated high school, but sixty-seven of her classmates have friended her on Facebook.” “So what? I’m friends with people I don’t even remember.” Peter pretends for a moment to get engrossed in a page of his tome, which annoys me. “She contradicts herself constantly, and she doesn’t seem the least bit aware of it. She told me that until six months ago she didn’t own any shoes besides combat boots. Then she started wearing clogs and Converse low tops. It was as if she experienced some profound breakthrough when she realized she could wear clogs. I wanted to shake her and say, You’re twenty­ six. You can wear any kind of shoes you want. How does Alex know her, anyway?” “They met in Costa Rica last summer.” “And he’s hoping for something to happen?” “He’d be thrilled. I’d be too.” “I’m sure you would.” I press the palm of my hand against my chin. “Don’t start. You know that’s not what I mean. Kiss?” he asks. Even though I know I should tamp down my ugly feelings, I feel them wriggling like worms in a container of fishing bait. In the past year, I’ve only added one new name to my list: Peter’s. “Gonna get married?” Laurie teases when we chat over the phone. She has moved back home. “Gonna have babies?” I’m twenty-eight, a socially appropriate age for settling down. I love Peter, but being with someone means being with yourself in a way that’s harder than when you are on your own. “I have a tattoo,” I say illogically. “Why doesn’t mine count for anything?” My tattoo is small—just the call numbers for Clarissa inked in neat penmanship across the lower left side of my back. I got it on a whim in oxford when literature still felt urgent to me. The first time Peter peeled back my black wool tights, I gave him the sexy one-line summary: “It’s about a coquette who’s ruined by a rake.” Peter laughed: “You’re the thinking man’s bombshell.” Now Peter answers, “Of course yours counts. But it’s different. It’s an allusion to a book, for Christ’s sake.”“So butterflies are better?” “Not better,” he says, “just different. Stop being so competitive.” I don’t move. “I don’t understand how you can like someone like her and like me, too.” “I can like her, but like you differently,” Peter says. “I can think she’s wonderful and still love you.” I turn away. “All right, then,” Peter says. “No kiss.” But I turn back, and we begin kissing. We come up from the covers, and I straddle Peter, and we start to have sex. His face comes unmasked, and I notice the things that are pure Peter: how half of his left eyebrow has been rubbed away by worry, and how above the other is a small scar he got from jumping off the shed in his backyard when he was a child. His fine blond hair sticks up. All of this, and especially his expression—which is always stunned when we first come together— reminds me of a little boy. I press my hand against Peter’s neck, gently at first, then I gradually clamp it harder between my thumb and index finger. I can feel his adam’s apple bob when he swallows. Peter likes this; he likes it when I take control. He’s told me it’s a turn-on, which is why I do it. Usually I loosen my grip after a few seconds, sit back on my heels, forget about how Peter looks unmasked, and concentrate on how we feel together. But tonight I don’t. Peter rasps; his expression changes. He looks at me as though I’m a stranger. I shift my weight and move my other hand to Peter’s neck, my thumbs pressing in on both sides of his voice box. The flesh yields, but not the bones. His tongue comes out of his mouth, the narrow tip of it touches his top lip, and his eyes close. And then suddenly they open, both at the same time, and he says, “Stop it, Sylvie. You’re hurting me.” “I’m sorry,” I whisper, reducing the pressure, turning my fingers into something light and without intention, like birds’ feathers. “You should have said something.”Peter pushes himself up on his elbows until he’s sitting. He grabs my shoulders and presses me backward to the bed, and we keep having sex until he comes. Then he rolls off and faces the windows away from me, and I know that it’s over. It’s so quiet and still when Peter speaks, his voice is like an object that trips you in a dark room. “Why did you do that?” he demands. “What?” “Never mind. Good night.” “Kiss?” Peter doesn’t move. His back is still turned to me. “Backs can’t kiss, can they? All right, lipless back, no kiss. I get the picture.”